VEIL
(A MESSAGE FOR EVERYONE INSIDE THE HOUSE)
The men’s World Cup means there’ll be those flags hanging from windows again: white slashed with red, scrawled with caps-lock messages.
People will talk about ‘awareness’. They’ll tell a story about men coming home after a bad football result. As if it’s the team’s fault, or the beer’s fault, but never his. It’s a story that lets them ignore the nameless, faceless She who ‘loses every time’.
She, or They, or He.
But domestic abuse never did start and end with the 90 minute mark. The fear’s 24/7/365, exhausting, inescapable, flies crawling and buzzing into every nerve in your body til you stop noticing how cold it feels.
Hours and days blur, patterns forming on an endless replay loop. You just want to lift the lace curtain that clings like a net to the window frame, tear away the veil, and scream a scorching flame that splits the evening sky. But it’s too much. The lace is too heavy to lift alone.
So this is for everyone who’s been inside that house, behind that curtain. Maybe you got out, and you’re still finding the freedom dizzy. Maybe you grew up there. Maybe you only go back to that house in the shadowy corners of your dreams. Maybe you’re still inside, looking for a way out.
I don’t know all of your stories. But I do have a message for you, written in lace and ribbon and thousands of stitches.
To everyone who survived: May every star shine bright for you, the endless sparkling sky a roadmap to help you navigate the strange new seas of freedom.
And to everyone who didn’t: May every flower blossom for you, may you live forever in our memories, our stories, and in the roses that glow softly in the June morning sunlight. I hope you found peace, somewhere.
Awareness is not enough, because abuse is never accidental. Show solidarity with survivors: centre our voices, listen to our stories, believe us when we speak. Show love and patience if the words still turn to ice on our tongues. And remember the power of your small acts of kindness, because they’re the glow of a beacon above the stormy water, an ember-spark that warms even the most fear-frozen hands.
The work doesn’t stop here.
Domestic abuse will still happen, in every country, every day. It’s not something that can be covered up with a red-and-white flag (the same flag that got sprayed over roundabouts and cable-tied to lampposts, as a calculated threat) and then ignored for another four years.
So many people choose not to see, but if you’re worried about a friend, a family member, don’t act like there’s nothing going on behind the lace curtains. Reach out. Remind your friend of their magic. Let them know they’re not alone. Show up.
Sometimes all it takes is one message or conversation to give you the strength to step on the long, overgrown forest path to somewhere safer. That hope shimmers in the air, a guiding star to a brighter world, through the veil.
Sending all the love in my bright red heart to anyone who’s been through domestic ab*se. May every star shine bright for you, every flower blossom for you.
And thank you, to all the stars in my sky.
